My Macaroni Pot
by She'sAManiac
Summary: It's Mother's Day at the Cox household, and nine-year old Perry has plenty of reason to be happy. After all, he has got the best ever present. Nothing can break his spirit today...or so he thinks. Oneshot. Rated T for violence, and 1 use of mild language.


**Note-Ok, so I know it's O****OC, but he's supposed to be **_**nine**_**! Hope you enjoy, and…happy Mother's day! Car Chasers, I will update soon!**

Perry was ecstatic. A broad, toothy smile was stretched across his face as he ran home from the Sunday Club. It was more of a skipping job than an actual sprint, however, because he trying very hard not the shatter the small object that was crashing around inside his rucksack. There was no denying that Perry was happy. And it was all because of the date. Sunday 22nd March. Mother's Day.

Perry veered to a halt by his front door, scuffing his trainers in the process, but not really caring. He took his key from his pocket and slotted it into the rusty keyhole. The mechanism cracked open, and the door swung open. Perry walked in, and dumped his bag by the door.

"Mom?" he called. The silence echoed back at him. "Mo-om?" He sighed, rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. "Momomomomomomomomomom…"

"Hey, sweetie!" a voice called from behind him, cutting him off. Perry turned, and grinned. A tall, frail woman stood behind him. Her thin blonde hair fell to her shoulders, and her smile was roughly ninety-nine percent red lipstick. Her watercolour blue eyes were sad. Perry tried to distract his gaze from the fresh purple mark on her cheek, obscurely covered up with foundation.

"Hey mom!" he grinned, and buried himself in an embrace. His mother's bones dug into him through her skin. She kissed him on the forehead, and he immediately pulled away with a grimace.

"Eww! Gross!" he said, wiping his head. Margaret Cox smiled down at her son.

"Sorry, Per-Bear" she said softly, using the nickname she's called him since he was in diapers. Her voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper. "How was Sunday Club?"

"Oh yeah!" Perry's face brightened as he remembered the reason he'd run home. He looked worriedly to his mother. "Don't look! Don't look!" Margaret quickly covered her eyes with thin fingers, her mouth twisted in amusement, and turned away. Perry skidded over to the door, knelt down and unzipped his bag. He peered inside anxiously, and quickly looked over at his mother with a quick warning of "No peeking!" Then his eyes sparked with delight, and he lifted a small object out of his bag. He quickly hid it behind his back, stood up and turned back to his mom.

"Ok, you can look now"

Margaret turned back, and took her fingers away from her eyes. Shyly, Perry took the object from behind his back, and placed it in her hands. The object was a small pot, made of dried macaroni and shoddily covered with glue. The words _I Love You Mom_ were written unevenly in red paint around the cylinder, followed by a shaky heart.

Margaret's eyes flickered from the pot to her son and back again.

"It's for your pens…" Perry explained, embarrassed. Margaret swallowed, and a small tear trickled down her cheek, which she wiped away with the tip of her index finger. Perry looked up at her, the fear clearly scrawled on his face.

"What's wrong…don't you like it?" he asked. Margaret shook her head and sniffed.

"No! No of course now, sweetie! I love it!" she whispered, smiling down at her child. She pulled him into a one armed hug, carefully placing the pot on a small coffee table next to her. Perry clung onto her thin waist.

"Miss Carter helped me make it…" he mumbled into her floral dress. Margaret stroked the red, cherubic curls on the top of his head and smiled.

Then the key clicked in the door.

Instantly, Perry's head snapped up. Margaret stiffened.

"Perry, go upstairs" she said quietly, but firmly. But it was already too late. The door swung open, creaking in pain. A man stumbled into the room, slamming the door behind him. His legs struggled under his thick bulk, and he reeked of Guinness. His thick ginger hair was streaked with grey. Perry shuddered. People always said he looked like his father. He'd sooner die.

Brian Cox swayed on his feet. He looked like a drunken clown.

"Marrrgieee…" he slurred. "Whassat?" He pointed at the macaroni pot on the coffee table. "Wha' ish it?" His Irish accent always came out strong when he was drunk.

"It's a pot" Margaret said stonily. Perry could feel her trembling as he clung onto her arm. "Perry made it for me"

Brian looked at the two. He drooled.

"Wheresh mine?" he demanded.

"I-it's for Mother's Day" Perry stuttered.

"Wah?" Brian roared, his face contorting into a confused rage. "Wash she ever done fer you?" Perry winced. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Paige at the top of the stairs, crouched and huddled in a corner, clinging to the banister like a lifeline.

"Ansher me, you lil brat!" Brian growled. He looked like a bull about to charge. Perry smiled to himself as he imagined steam erupting from his father's nostrils.

"Wah you smilin' at?"

Perry quickly wiped the smile off his face, and stared his father in the eye.

"Ya ungrateful monshter! After I shlave all day for these bastards and thish ish the thanks I get? I'll teash you a lesshon…"

Perry ducked as a fist flew at his face, and collided with the wall. The room shook, and the small macaroni pot fell off the coffee table, and crashed into small pasta pieces. Brian stumbled, and aimed again. Even blind drunk, Brian was a good shot, and the prospect of missing a target only made him angrier. So when the next blow contacted with Perry's torso, it sent him flying across the room. He crashed into the opposite wall, where the red-hot punches proceeded to rain down on him from every angle his father could reach.

"_Mom! Mommy! Help!_" Perry screamed. But Margaret only stood and watched from the other end of the room as her husband, for the first time ever, beat up her son instead of her. Horrified, Paige silently escaped up to her room.

By the time Brian left (probably to go back to the bar), Perry was a mess. His hair was tangled. A string of blood tricked down his face, diluted with tears. His shirt was torn. His face was battered and bruised.

Slowly, Margaret bent down, and picked up the bits of pasta.

"Alright" she said brightly. "Let's see if we can find some superglue, ok?"

She walked over to her son, and reached down to take his hand. Perry shrugged it off. Shakily, he stood up, made his way over to the stairs, and started to climb up.

"Per-Bear!" Margaret called. But Perry wasn't listening anymore. The little macaroni pot wasn't the only thing that had broken that day.


End file.
